


Put a Name to My Longing

by Thebonemoose



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Brief mention of underage smoking, Cabin Fic, Jon was in a band in Uni, Knitting, M/M, Mutual Pining, Scotland, Tasseography, Tender - Freeform, based on art, brief mention of drug use, no beta we die like archive assistants, post 159, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:34:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24463594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thebonemoose/pseuds/Thebonemoose
Summary: Martin hadn’t said Jon’s name in three days.To be fair, he hadn’t said much of anything else, either. Adjusting to life in the actual world was slow going, but Jon… Jon was patient.Martin sighed a foggy breath, thankful that this time it was due to the early morning chill, and not the constant mist of the Lonely. The mug of tea was warm in his hands, and dew glistened on the grass, catching the first few rays of sunlight.There really was no better place to recover.Or: Martin can't say Jon's name anymore.Inspired by Liz Yerby's comic "Sir, is this Love?"
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 30
Kudos: 293





	Put a Name to My Longing

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again. 
> 
> A few disclaimers: I don't know shit about knitting or tasseography, I just did five minutes of research. Apologies if I'm incorrect about anything. 
> 
> Also!!! Please read Liz Yerby's little comic! It's really cute and I think about it so often. I'll link to it in the end notes.

Martin hadn’t said Jon’s name in three days. 

To be fair, he hadn’t said much of anything else, either. Adjusting to life in the actual world was slow going, but Jon… Jon was patient. 

Martin sighed a foggy breath, thankful that this time it was due to the early morning chill, and not the constant mist of the Lonely. The mug of tea was warm in his hands, and dew glistened on the grass, catching the first few rays of sunlight. 

There really was no better place to recover, he thought. 

Martin had a creaking behind him, and the old wooden door of the cabin swung open. Jon stepped out, wearing boots that were warm, but too big for him. Martin felt the familiar bloom of fondness ring out in his chest, and he gripped the rail he was leaning against. 

“Good morning, Martin,” Jon said quietly. He stood beside Martin, and leaned against the railing. 

“Morning,” Martin replied. He took a sip of tea. 

“Thanks, by the way,” Jon said after a moment, raising a mug of his own. Martin just nodded.   
“Did you sleep alright?” 

Martin shrugged. “Yeah. No nightmares, this time. You?”

Jon looked away. “Same as always, I suppose,” he answered, and Martin longed to reach over and offer comfort. 

But he didn’t. 

The sun made an appearance, and the world officially turned from dawn-blue to brilliant morning gold. The world smelled fresh and alive, and Martin remembered again that the majority of people lived normal, mundane lives. Untouched by entities of fear and tragedy. 

They had little jobs, and families, and spouses, and hobbies. They weren’t preoccupied with fading in and out of this plane of existence, or forcefully ripping encounters out of innocents. 

They didn’t have to blind themselves just to be free. 

Martin let out a heavy breath, and Jon glanced over. 

“You alright, Martin?” he asked gently. 

Martin hummed, and nodded. He took another sip of tea, and mourned the loss of its heat. It was still good, but not as comforting. Martin glanced from the corner of his eye to Jon, wrapped up in one of Martin’s jumpers. 

He swallowed. 

“Might go for a walk today. See the village,” Martin said, and downed the rest of his tea, leaving only a few dregs at the bottom. He tilted the cup towards the light, trying to find shapes in the leaves. 

He thought he saw a bird’s wing and two lumpy, vaguely human figures joined at the hands, and decided to check for any sources on Tasseography while he was in the village.

“Do you mind if I come with?” Jon asked, running a hand through his hair. 

“‘Course not,” Martin said easily, and was rewarded with Jon’s smile. 

They waited a few more hours--both to enjoy the morning and to give the town the chance to wake up--then set out. Jon wore the same too-big boots and jumper combo, and Martin wore sensible clothing that actually fit him.

Realistically, they’d be a sight no matter what they wore. A heavily scarred, tired-looking man with long hair streaked with gray, and… Martin. 

Martin almost chuckled. He knew that he was as much of a sore thumb as Jon, albeit for different reasons. Martin was tall, but a life of diminishing himself and several months in the employ of a Lukas ensured that nobody would notice that about him. That, and the few wisps of mist that still clung to him when he zoned out, the slight static and sound of waves that crept into his hearing if he didn’t make the effort to be present, to be grounded. 

The walk to the village wasn’t too long, and Jon and Martin arrived before mid-morning. Martin had brought a grocery list, and Jon was curious to see if there were any libraries or bookshops there. 

Martin found a little market easily enough, and he and Jon split up to satisfy their own curiosities. Martin wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw Jon enter into a textile shop. 

He found nearly everything he needed in the market, and made polite conversation with the elderly employee (a woman named Nimisha), who said that she was surprised to see a new face in town. 

“Are you here with anyone?” she asked, bagging his groceries.

“Yes with my--” Martin hesitated. How could he describe his relationship with Jon? The man he’s in love with? His ex-boss? Someone he would walk through hell for and very nearly has? “My… friend,” he finished lamely. 

Nimisha nodded kindly, and handed Martin his bags. “Have a good day, Martin,” she said with a smile, and Martin nodded awkwardly. 

“You, too,” he replied. 

If she noticed his jerky manner, she didn’t call him on it, and Martin left to go find Jon. 

Serendipitously, Jon was leaving a shop of his own at the same time, and they made eye contact across the road. Jon waved, his arm full of bags. Martin jogged across the street and nodded his greeting. 

“Hi,” Jon said, smiling. 

“Hey,” Martin replied, a bit breathless. “What did you get?” he asked, peering down at Jon’s bags. 

Jon opened up a bag and reached in, pulling out a skein of yarn. “I’m going to knit,” he said proudly, and Martin let out a bemused chuckle. 

“I didn’t know you knew how,” he said, surprised.

“Oh, I don’t. Well-- I _do_ because of--” Jon widened his eyes meaningfully

“--Eye reasons, right,” Martin finished for him. 

“The point is I know the theory, and I figured there’s no reason not to put it in practice. And this yarn is from local sheep!” Jon grinned, showing Martin the tag. 

Martin felt another rush of affection for Jon, and did his best to swallow it down. “Sounds fun,” he said. 

“I also got a few books. I thought you might be interested in this one,” Jon said, pulling out one on Tasseography. 

Martin stared down at it, frowning. “Did you read my mind?” he asked, and Jon furrowed his brow. 

“No? At least, I don’t think so. I just thought you’d like this because you make so much tea,” Jon explained, and Martin let out a breath. 

“Oh. Thanks,” he said, and mustered up a genuine smile. 

“Were you thinking about Tasseography today?” Jon asked.

Martin hummed in affirmation. “Briefly, but yes.”

Jon frowned. “Hm. That’s…”

“Probably not a coincidence?” Martin filled in. 

Jon nodded, his expression darkening. 

“Come on, J--, er, let’s go home,” Martin stuttered, and Jon looked at him for a moment, his brows furrowed. Martin tensed under his eyes, but Jon said nothing, and they began the trek back to the cabin. 

Martin was so focused on not saying Jon’s name he missed the easy way he referred to the cabin as ‘home.’

“Martin?” Jon called, his footsteps sounding down the stairs. 

“In here!” Martin called, stirring stew with a wooden spoon. Jon entered the kitchen, pulling a jumper over his head. It was another one of Martin’s. He deliberately turned his attention back to the stew. 

“What are you cooking?” Jon asked, leaning close to catch a whiff. “It smells good.”

“Stew,” Martin answered simply, smiling. “There’s enough, if you want some.”

Jon shrugged and leaned against the counter. “I’ll try it, but I haven’t been very hungry,” he said, his tone careful. 

Martin could tell when Jon was trying to walk on eggshells around him. He appreciated it, but it wasn’t necessary. “Lukas made quite the meal, eh?” Martin said offhandedly. 

Jon spluttered. “I--” he croaked.

Martin shook his head. “It’s okay, J-- I mean… It’s fine. I… get it.”

Jon sighed. “Martin, I--”

Martin put up a hand. “Look, this-- your…’eating’ habits? I’ve had some time to come to terms with them, all right?”

Jon cringed, evidently with the memory of that poor woman Jon had ripped a statement out of. 

“It’s not… Ideal,” Martin continued. “And, obviously, we can’t have you taking statements from anyone here,” he said. 

Jon nodded. “Peter Lukas seems to be sustaining me longer than a normal statement would,” he added. 

Martin quirked his head. “That’s good,” he acknowledged, his brows furrowed. Then, “Fuck that guy, anyways. Basira did say she’d send some when everything at the Institute cooled down, right?”

Jon nodded again.

Martin returned to the pot. “Until then,” he said, and grabbed a bowl, dishing up some stew. He handed the bowl to Jon. “People food it is.”

Jon smiled and accepted the bowl. “Thank you, Martin,” he replied. 

Martin took a bowl and dished some up for himself, then he joined Jon at the table. 

“Thoughts?” Martin asked, when Jon took his first bite. 

“This would be exactly what I needed if I… well, needed it,” Jon said awkwardly. Martin laughed. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment, I guess,” he said, and tried the stew. It had a lot of garlic, but Martin wasn’t a coward, so he appreciated that. They were quiet for several moments, each enjoying the warmth of their dinner. 

“What is it like?” Martin asked out of the blue. The spoon dangled from his fingers, his expression thoughtful. 

Jon swallowed a bite and frowned. “What is what like?”

Martin shifted in his seat. “Well-- eating, I guess,” he said. 

Jon sat back in his seat and looked pensive. “It’s like--” he began, then cut himself off. “Have you ever done mushrooms?” he asked suddenly. 

Martin choked on his food. “Have I _what_?!”

Jon chuckled at Martin’s surprise. “I was, er-- I was tripping once--”

“You were tripping?!” Martin exclaimed. 

Jon nodded. “Y-yes, but that’s not the point of the story. The point is that I was high, alright, and I thought it would be a good idea to try to eat a banana.”

Martin frowned. “Okay?”

“The story’s not over yet, Martin,” Jon reminded. Martin shrugged, and motioned for him to continue. 

“I was so preoccupied with the texture and temperature of the banana in my mouth that I could hardly taste it. It was like my entire eating experience had been hijacked by chewing,” he chuckled. “And eating for me now is a bit like that.”

Martin stared at him with narrowed eyes. “Like being on drugs, you mean?”

“Okay, well it’s not an _exact_ comparison--” Jon rolled his eyes, and Martin laughed. 

“I really can’t believe you of all people did shrooms,” Martin said. 

Jon shrugged. “It was one time, Martin. Besides, I started smoking when I was _fifteen_ , it shouldn’t be _that_ surprising.”

Martin sighed and shook his head. “It just boggles the mind, is all,” he said, and caught Jon pressing a hand to his mouth in a vain attempt at stifling his laughter. 

Martin leveled him with a glare. “What, J--” he cleared his throat. “ _What_?”

Jon tried to school his features, and took a deep breath. He opened his mouth, and then promptly burst into giggles. “I’m sorry,” he said, struggling for air. “It’s just-- ‘it boggles the mind?’”

“Are you really laughing at my word choice right now? You have said some _very_ stupid things, Mr. S-- mister,” Martin reminded him. 

Jon shook his head. “Like what?” he challenged. 

Martin scoffed, and put on the snobby, deep voice he used to make fun of Jon. “Are you a ghost, Martin?” he said, and Jon immediately threw his hands up. 

“Oh, really, Martin? This again?” he exclaimed, still half-laughing. 

“Yes, _really_. Don’t start a fight you can’t finish, my friend,” Martin replied easily, and stood, taking his empty bowl to the sink. 

“Here, let me,” Jon said, suddenly at his side. He took the bowl from Martin and began the washing up. 

Martin let himself have one long moment, just to look at Jon. His hair was falling out of his bun, strands of gray which caught the light like-- well, like spider web, but Jon would hate the comparison, and to be honest, Martin wasn’t too keen on it, either. 

“Something on my face, Martin?” Jon asked, smirking. 

“Yeah,” Martin replied without thinking, and made a quick escape. Jon spent the next few moments scrubbing at his face, frowning. 

“Alright, I’m done,” Jon said tiredly, holding up a knitted object.

“Wow,” Martin said. “What… is it?”

Jon looked down, then back to Martin. “It’s a potholder,” he said, as if it were obvious. 

“Ohhh,” Martin humored. 

Jon sighed. He walked closer and gave Martin a closer look. “Here, see? I made a mistake.”

Martin frowned, and looked at Jon’s work. “You couldn’t figure out how to fix it?” he asked, confused. 

Jon shook his head. “No, I know exactly how to fix it. I put it there on purpose.”

“Oh. Of course,” Martin shrugged. “Remind me-- _why_ would you do that?”

“There’s a superstition that states that knitting made by hand is supposed to have a mistake, so evil spirits or fairies don’t get trapped,” Jon explained.

“And you are, of course, well known for your deep-seated belief in superstition,” Martin replied. 

Jon rolled his eyes. “Okay, fair, but it’s about the _culture_ of the thing, Martin,” he said, and Martin had to count backwards from ten just to get his pulse back to normal. 

“Anyways, now that this is done,” he said, and tossed the potholder at Martin, “would you like me to make you something?”

Martin ignored the needy voice in his head that screamed _Yes, please, always,_ and nodded. “Sure, thanks J-- uh, Sir,” he said, and cursed his near slip-up. 

“...Alright,” Jon said, frowning slightly at Martin’s word choice. “It can’t be a jumper, though,” he added, and Martin shrugged. 

“I’ve got enough jumpers,” he replied. _Or I had, until you kept stealing them. Not that I mind,_ he thought. 

Martin was reading his tasseography book, and Jon was knitting on the couch beside him. A storm thundered on outside, and rain beat harshly against the house. Inside it was dry, and warm, and Martin glanced over at Jon, who was frowning at his work. 

“Problem?” Martin asked, and Jon huffed. 

“Yes.” 

Martin raised his eyebrows and put his book down. “What’s the issue?”

Jon sighed. “I’m bored.”

Martin furrowed his brow. “So… do something else?” he suggested. 

“Well-- it’s not the knitting that’s the problem. The knitting is helping, actually. I just… I don’t want to deal with my thoughts right now,” Jon explained. He carefully set his knitting aside and slumped down. 

Martin ignored the red sirens in his head screaming _bad idea, bad idea_. “I could-- er, I could read to you, if you want,” Martin said, feeling at once clumsy and on display. 

But Jon just looked at him, surprised. “Oh” he said softly. Martin considered rescinding the offer until Jon continued. “That would be lovely, Martin.”

Martin could not handle replying, so he just picked up his book again and began to read. Jon sighed contentedly from his spot in the corner of the couch, and Martin’s heart chose that moment to try desperately to fling itself from his body. 

Martin never noticed that Jon didn’t pick up his knitting again until Martin was done with his reading. Jon’s eyes were closed, and he was reclined on the sofa, half-sitting, half-laying down. When the last word was spoken, Jon opened his eyes. “Thank you, Martin,” Jon said earnestly, and Martin swallowed thickly. 

“No problem, s-sir,” he replied quietly, and made what he hoped was an inconspicuous escape. 

“D’you know what I miss about London?” Martin asked the room at large. He was laying down on the floor of the living room throwing an apple in the air above him and catching it over and over. Jon was tinkering with the old television set. 

“The rent prices?” Jon quipped, and Martin snorted. 

“Definitely not,” he said, and took a bite of his apple. “My iPod.”

Jon scoffed. “There’s music in Scotland, too, you know.”

“Hey, I don’t need any snark from the likes of you, alright?” Martin said around half-masticated apple, and pointed accusingly at Jon. “And besides, Scotland doesn’t have _my_ music. I’ve had that shitty iPod Nano for the better part of a decade.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. 

Martin continued undeterred. “Whatever, you probably listen exclusively to Moby or something.”

Jon stared. “Martin, I was _in_ a band.”

Martin guffawed. “Yeah, right.”

“I’ve got proof,” Jon said easily, with a touch of self-satisfaction. Martin propped himself up on his elbow and searched Jon’s face for any shred of deception. 

“Oh, fuck _right_ off,” Martin said, and Jon laughed. Martin sat up fully. “There’s no fucking way. Prove it, right now,” Martin insisted.

“Wha-- can I at least fix the TV first?”

Martin shook his head. “No. Put your money where your mouth is, music man.”

Jon sighed. “Fine. But I need to go to the library.”

Martin furrowed his brows. “Wha-- the library? What do you need to go to the library for?”

Jon grinned. “I guess you’ll have to see, won’t you?” he said smugly. 

Martin chucked his apple at him. 

Jon caught it easily and took a bite before walking out. 

“Prick!” Martin called. 

“Be back soon!” Jon replied, and Martin grumbled. 

Jon was, in fact, back soon, judging by the clock on the wall. To Martin it felt much longer, but that was probably because he had spent the duration of Jon’s outing gazing at the ceiling and sighing in a manner that was both pitiful and lovesick. 

“Here you go, Martin! Proof!” Jon said upon his return, and tossed a stack of papers down at Martin. Jon took a seat on the floor beside him, still wearing his coat. 

Martin picked up a paper and peered at it. “What am I looking at, here?”

“Those are pictures I got off of Georgie’s Facebook,” Jon explained. 

Martin squinted. “No way,” he murmured. The picture in front of him included a skinny young man with dark hair and heavy black eyeliner. He was wearing ripped jeans and a long, dark shirt. He was being embraced by an equally dramatic-looking young woman wearing an oversized jean jacket covered in pins. 

“Every one of those pins was stolen,” Jon remarked fondly. 

Martin gaped. “Look at you go,” he muttered. Martin looked at the next picture, which showed Jon on stage, singing into a microphone. Georgie was beside him, singing backup and playing guitar. 

“What kind of music did you play?” Martin asked, and Jon chuckled. 

“Bad music. Terrible, angsty nonsense,” he replied. 

“I had no idea you could even sing. Can you still?” Martin asked, turning suddenly to Jon. He shrugged a bit awkwardly. 

“It’s been years, but I imagine so,” Jon responded. 

Martin hummed, and kept looking through the pictures. It was weird, seeing Jon so young. It made Martin a bit sad, honestly. To see him so naive and ignorant of the horrors he would be forced to endure. 

“Well, you got me,” Martin said after a moment, and handed Jon the papers. “You really were in a band.”

“Told you, “ he said, grinning in satisfaction. 

“Yes, sir, you did,” Martin replied quietly, a strange heaviness sweeping over him. Jon furrowed his brows at the change in Martin’s mood, but he said nothing. Probably for the best, Martin figured. 

“It’s a lovely day,” Jon remarked. He sat on Daisy’s rocking chair on the porch, and sipped his tea. 

Martin glanced at him with furrowed brows. “Sun’s not even up yet, Jo-- er, Sir,” he stammered. _Shit. He’s going to notice._

Jon frowned. “Martin, I-- you know I’m not your boss anymore, right? You don’t… you don’t have to call me ‘sir,’” he said. 

“That’s not why,” Martin replied before he could stop himself. 

Jon shifted his weight, and the rocking chair creaked beneath him. Martin suddenly felt very exposed in the chilly morning air, leaning against the wooden railing. 

Jon opened his mouth and stared at Martin, and Martin knew instantly that the Beholding was watching through Jon’s eyes, that it’s power flowed through him. 

Jon closed his mouth with a snap. He hummed angrily, and exhaled through his nose. He looked back to Martin. “I would like to know why, if you are willing to tell me,” he said with deliberate calm. 

Martin’s instinct was to say ‘No, that’s alright, thanks,’ and go on a walk for four hours, but something about the completely human desperation in Jon’s eyes changed his mind. 

There was nothing supernatural there, no compulsion in that plea, and still Martin could not resist. 

“I’m… You’ll know. If I say your name, you’ll.. You’ll hear it. And I’m trying… to be respectful.” Martin swallowed thickly, and averted his gaze. 

“I’ll… Know? I’m-- Martin, I’m trying _not_ to Know,” Jon said, confused. 

Martin sighed and glanced upwards. The sky was no help, nor were the vaguely religious pleadings in his mind. 

“Not… Not capital K _Know,_ just… know, lowercase k.”

“...What?” Jon furrowed his brows. “Martin, I’m-- I’m lost,” he chuckled helplessly, and stood beside Martin at the railing. 

Martin sighed. “I’m trying to be considerate of how you feel, and not make my-- my _feelings_ about you your problem,” he said in a rush. 

“Feelings?” Jon said, standing taller. 

Martin groaned in aggravation. “Yes! So I can’t say your name, alright? If I say your name you’ll-- you’ll hear it. Hear _me_.” Martin tore his eyes away from Jon’s.

He felt Jon step closer. “Martin… Martin, I _want_ to hear you,” Jon insisted. 

Martin looked up at him, still frowning. 

“I-- you--” Jon caught himself off. “Look, I’m really bad at this, alright? But I-- I’m going to try. Because you deserve someone who tries.”

Martin’s heart caught in his throat. He could not tear his eyes away from Jon. 

“I… I was under the impression that you no longer… cared for me,” Jon said quietly. He looked so small, his gaze downturned. “That’s… not the case?” Jon asked hopefully, meeting Martin’s eyes. 

“It’s not the case, Jon,” Martin confirmed breathlessly. 

Jon’s face broke into a wide grin when Martin used his name. He laughed giddily, then bit his cheek in an attempt to quiet himself. 

“Oh,” he said. “Good.”

Martin nodded. “Yeah. Good.” Martin leaned his arm on the railing in the space between them, close enough that Jon could take his hand, if he wanted. 

And he did. 

Jon’s hand fit perfectly in Martin’s, and he squeezed. Martin exhaled, and tugged Jon closer. Jon came easily, and leaned against Martin’s shoulder. 

Together, they watched the sun come up, and the only word on Martin’s mind was _Jon, Jon Jon. ___

**Author's Note:**

> Okay there it is. I originally wanted this to be longer but it really did not work out that way so whoops. 
> 
> Liz Yerby's comic can be found [here.](https://lizyerby.tumblr.com/post/152514587473/this-comic-is-extra-good-if-you-read-it-while)


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